The Technician’s Secret Visit
It was the third time in a single week that Mrs. Gable had called the technical service. Her husband, a man confined to a wheelchair following a tragic accident, was desperate to watch the World Cup semifinals. The tension in the house was palpable, fueled by the sweltering summer heat and the husband’s growing frustration with the flickering television signal.
Mrs. Gable was a stunning woman in her fifties, possessing a timeless beauty and a hunger that had gone unsatisfied for years. As I entered the living room, I could feel her gaze lingering on me, specifically on the bulge beneath my work trousers. She wore a short, semi-transparent skirt and a blouse left daringly open, revealing the swell of her breasts and nipples that seemed to ache for attention.
While I knelt by the wall socket in the adjacent room, trying to diagnose the fault, I felt a soft, bare foot slide behind me, grazing my backside and reaching my groin. I turned to find her smiling mischievously, her chest fully exposed. In the other room, her husband continued to shout insults at the television, completely oblivious to the betrayal unfolding just a few feet away.
Without a word, she led me into the master bedroom. The moment the door clicked shut, she dropped to her knees and lowered my zipper. Her mouth was warm and skilled, her tongue dancing over me with a desperation that spoke of years of longing. I groaned, the risk of being caught only heightening the intensity of the encounter.
I pushed her back onto the bed, parting her legs to find her already drenched. As I entered her, she arched her back, gasping for air and whispering for more. The sound of her husband’s voice drifting from the living room—complaining about the delay—sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. Every thrust was fueled by the forbidden nature of the act.
“The technician is doing his best, dear!” she shouted back, her voice trembling as I hammered into her. “I’m just helping him hold the tools!”
The friction and the thrill pushed her over the edge. She began to climax in violent waves, her cries nearly echoing through the house. I clamped my hand over her mouth, whispering filth into her ear about her husband’s ignorance, which only seemed to drive her deeper into ecstasy.
Just as I reached my own limit, her husband called out that he had dropped the remote. With a final, powerful surge, I withdrew and let her take me into her mouth, swallowing every drop with a voracious appetite. We dressed quickly, and I returned to the socket, miraculously fixing the signal just as the game resumed.
As I left, Mrs. Gable kissed me deeply and slipped a five-hundred-euro bill into my pocket. “I have a feeling they’ll make the final,” she whispered with a wink. “If the TV breaks again, you’ll be the first person I call.”